We get through the border with relative ease. I say “relative” because I assume that the Agency of Justice has the same invasive video technology that the Agency of Influence has. So if they’re looking for me, they know where to find me.
Nick Hamilton lives in the Manayunk section of Philly. Known for its hills—more so than nearby East Falls—Manayunk, like Northern Liberties, was a working class neighborhood before it was gentrified. Jimenez and Hamilton still speak regularly even though, according to Elena, Hamilton has no idea what she’s been up to. Along the drive, she keeps referencing a need to add him to the team. Other than being the longest-tenured agent at the branch—save for the Old Man Richardson—I’m still not sure why it’s so imperative that we add him to the team. Elena has been vague on that front.
In the early evening, we pull up to his townhouse complex. Parked across the street, we unbuckle our seat belts before hearing a door close. It’s Hamilton, dressed in a T-shirt and jeans. Based on his pair of Levi’s, he must plan on going somewhere indoors. Philly’s summers are oppressively hot and steamy, especially with no breeze coming in off of either of its two rivers.
Hamilton hops into his car, turns the ignition, and pulls out of his parking spot underneath the building. The last time I sat in a car, surprised to see someone leaving their house …
Jimenez and I redo our seat belts before I turn the ignition and follow Hamilton. I drive down a steep hill and turn left. Driving around here is tricky, what with the hills and the never-ending line of parallel-parked cars. A chase is never a good option in this part of town, unless you want to risk hitting the eight-year old boy running into the street going after his favorite ball.
I slam on the breaks when Hamilton suddenly slips into an open parking space in front of a bar. It’s one of those corner joints you’d only see in a town like Philly or Boston. It’s old, it’s dirty, and most of its patrons fit that very same description. It’s one of those places where the stench of alcoholism bowls you over when you walk past it.
Hamilton climbs out of his car as ours sits in the middle of the one-way street. In general, Nick doesn’t look good. He’s let himself go a bit, as evidenced by the pudge that’s developed around his neck and gut.
“He’s going to a bar?” I say. “It’s like 5:30.”
Jimenez shrugs. “This is his dinner.”
“This is why you wanted him? So he wouldn’t fall off the wagon?”
“No. To get him back on.”
I remember Hamilton telling me he was in a detox program when he was younger. I thought it was for drugs, not alcohol.
“So what do we do?” I say.
“We’ll go in and get him.”
“Alright,” I say, unbuckling my seat belt.
“Not right now,” Jimenez says.
“You’re going to wait until he’s drunk.”
“Yup.”
“Let’s just go in there and get him now.”
“He won’t want anything to do with any of this. Not while he’s sober.”
A driver behind me honks their horn.
“Ay! Wait a minute!” Jimenez exclaims, throwing her hand up in the air. “Pendejo!” That’s the Elena Jimenez I know but don’t necessarily love.